Flipped

Then a few months ago I found myself talking to the tree. An entire conversation, just me and a tree. And on the climb down I felt like crying. Why didn’t I have someone real to talk to? Why didn’t I have a best friend like everyone else seemed to?

He pulled my curtain aside and looked across the street. “One’s character is set at an early age, son. The choices you make now will affect you for the rest of your life.” He was quiet for a minute, then dropped the curtain and said, “I hate to see you swim out so far you can’t swim back.”

Where would I be if things had been different? What would they have done with me? From the way my dad was talking, he wouldn’t have had much use for me, that’s for sure. He’d have stuck me in a nuthouse somewhere, anywhere, and forgotten about me. But then I thought, No! I’m his kid. He wouldn’t do that . . . would he?

I’d spent so many years avoiding Juli Baker that I’d never really looked at her, and now all of a sudden I couldn’t stop.

At last he turned to me and said, “Get beyond his eyes and his smile and the sheen of his hair—look at what’s really there.”

The way he said it sent a chill through me. It was as though he knew. And suddenly I felt defensive. Was he telling me his grandson wasn’t worth it?

I felt as though someone was watching me. I got so spooked I even got up and checked out the window and in the closet and under the bed, but still the feeling didn’t go away.

It took me until midnight to understand what it was.

It was me. Watching me.

He’d crossed the line, man. He’d crossed it big-time.

And what made the whole thing so stinking hard to ignore was the fact that standing right next to him, on the other side of the line, was my father.

“No, Bryce,” he said softly. “She’s the same as she’s always been; you’re the one who’s changed.” [...] “And, son, from here on out, you’ll never be the same again.”